


Improper Uses for a Piping Bag

by ingafterdark (ingthing)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale Being a Ridiculous Hedonist, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crack, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Discord: O Lord Heal This Server, Explicit Sexual Content, Food Kink, Food Sex, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Implied Rimming, M/M, No Betas We Fall Like Crowley, Pastry abuse, Things Crowley Probably Should Have Questioned, Things Crowley Shouldn't Be So On Board With, food as lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:19:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22450171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingthing/pseuds/ingafterdark
Summary: Aziraphale wants Crowley to, for the lack of better words, fill him like an eclair. Naturally, he manifests a mountain of pastry to make his request even sweeter.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 98





	Improper Uses for a Piping Bag

**Author's Note:**

> This should not require saying, but this is very much an important PSA:
> 
> Celestial and Occult Beings need not worry themselves with bodily ailments such as "yeast infections."  
> Do not try the acts depicted below at home, in bed, or anywhere else for that matter. 
> 
> I naturally do not endorse these acts on actual human beings and am not liable for whatever happens if you, the reader, choose to make the same decisions Aziraphale made in this terrible, misguided work of fan fiction.
> 
> That said, enjoy!

"So you manifested a mountain of pastries and laid naked, on top of it, waiting for me to walk in so I could _what_?"

"Fill me like one of your French eclairs," Aziraphale repeated resolutely, in a tone of voice which made his request sound as banal as making him a cup of cocoa. His thighs shifted, drawing attention to his standing effort which looked... surprisingly, not out of place next to a croissant.

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose hard, as though that would drag him out of his confusion somehow.

Aziraphale idly worried at the sticky crumb of a nearby cherry turnover. "It's really not so hard a concept to grasp, my dear."

"No, no, s'not the issue," Crowley said, surveying the pile. (Why wasn't it an issue? Hell if he knew anymore.) "You want me to... On top of this? Seems a waste. It'll be a right mess."

"I like a bit of a mess. I like being _made_ a mess, and if you would be so kind as to join me—"

Crowley began to clamber up the slope of doughnuts, choux and filo (was that a rhombus of baklava Crowley spotted tumbling down past his shin?) which was easier imagined than done. It was difficult, he found, to obtain footing on something so flakey and buttery.

Miraculously, all the falling pastry did nothing to ruffle the angel atop the mound. It was only when Crowley (who had shed his clothing on the way up) flipped him over that he yelled in surprise, landing face down in the food with a muted crunch.

"You want to be filled?" Crowley purred, straddling the angel's thighs and resting his willfully hardened erection between those ample buttocks. He pressed kisses to Aziraphale's sugary glaze and pastry-speckled back, smoothing similarly sticky hands along his flanks. "Want me to get my cream in you?"

"Yes, yes Crowley—but oh, if you could use..." Aziraphale gasped, pushing back into Crowley as he snapped his fingers.

Suddenly, there was a piping bag, complete with a large round nozzle, in Crowley's hands. He gaped, and Aziraphale looked back to see what was taking so long.

Crowley frowned and sniffed at the open end of the bag, tongue darting out to catch hints of egg and vanilla. "Creme pat. So when you said 'like an eclair'—"

"Quite literally, yes."

"Huh," Crowley replied, squishing the end of the bag a bit between his thumb and forefinger. Out the corner of his eye, he spotted a real eclair sitting there innocently, and he picked it up. "I'll get to it, of course, but—"

"But?" Aziraphale asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Seeing as you're the one with the oral fixation, I thought you'd want a taste of what you're getting, first." Crowley reached up to press the end of the eclair to the angel's lips, and it went past them with an approving moan. Without the power of speech, Aziraphale's hands flew back to part his cheeks, begging Crowley, the demon imagined, to make him sweet, to pipe him full.

Why was that so hot? Crowley really didn't know anymore. Next thing he knew, he was opening the angel up on his fingers and slotting the nozzle into him, and Aziraphale yelped at the first squeeze of cold pastry cream. Anchored as he was by Crowley over his thighs, he clutched the dough beneath him and wiggled at the introduction of more of the bag's contents. The cream turned runny and liquid within Aziraphale's clenching, hot insides, and Crowley really shouldn't be so aroused by what amounted to, essentially, melted ice cream. He was aching already.

When Aziraphale caught his wrist, Crowley knew to toss the piping bag aside and sink his own "nozzle" into the syrupy mess of Aziraphale's ass, the cream oozing out as it was displaced. Their knees sank into the pastries as Crowley thrusted in and out, and before long he felt Aziraphale tighten around him with orgasm, the eclair in his mouth broken down enough that his pleasured, punched-out cries gained a tinge of clarity.

Crowley continued to pump his hips, the slide too smooth to get him to completion. Fuck, he wouldn't—he couldn't—

Before he could realise this was what happened, Aziraphale hooked two fingers into his ass, and the piping bag along with them, and Crowley was coming, grunting at the foreign sensation of the cream and the metal tip from behind and the inexorable heat of Aziraphale surrounding him in front.

 _What the ever-loving hell_ , Crowley'smind supplied, when his vocal chords refused to.

Aziraphale shifted out of the angel-shaped divot in the pastry and Crowley's vocal chords were forced into action when the demon lost his balance. It wasn't his most graceful topple, and he landed on the floor with a grunt, a danish cushioning his cheek.

"Crowley! Are you all right?" Aziraphale called from somewhere above.

Crowley hissed, resigning himself to the wrath of whatever diety reigned over patisserie. His nose was mashed right into the danish's filling. "Apricot," he growled, "I hate apricot."

"Oh, good," Aziraphale breathed in relief, making his way down the slightly squashed mountain to see to the demon.

It would have been uncomfortable for anyone with a human spine to handle Crowley's new configuration, with his backside up in the air, but he was perfectly content to just lay there, with his eyes closed, for a while. All that excitement wrung him out, and—there was a distinctly buttery, sticky hand groping at one buttcheek. Opening one eye just a crack, he registered Aziraphale staring at his rear the way he might at a sachertorte, or a summer berry panna cotta, or, well, anything he wanted to devour, really.

A surge of arousal went down to Crowley's groin, and all thoughts of pastry karma went out the window.

"If you're amiable to it," Aziraphale said, the inevitable arriving, "I rather think I'd like seconds of that cream, now."

And so he did, and so Crowley did, and so neither of them would never look a pastry basket in the face quite the same way again.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a weekly challenge on a Discord I'm in which feels a bit like if you stumbled in on a very naughty, very depraved game of mad libs. 
> 
> If, somehow, you want more like this, do check the rest of the collection out! There are some very talented people making extremely ridiculous things afoot.
> 
> (And do let me know if you still see creme patisserie the same way after reading this. I certainly don't!)
> 
> **Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated.**


End file.
